Chapter 15
ROSALIE
“Rosalie,” Max called. “Don’t be mad.”
Oh, I was mad.
I kept my gaze stubbornly fixed out the window, with my jaw clenched tight. I sat in the passenger seat of his car with my short dress riding up, showing off the itchy strap around my thigh.
Horrid thing, really. It certainly wasn’t a fashion statement of my choice, but Max had demanded I wear it.
It was na?ve, perhaps, to expect anything less of Max. He was always like this. Overprotective and overbearing. Every decision, every step I took, seemed to be under his watchful—and, frankly, suffocating—eye.
A part of me liked that about him.
My pride made me reluctant to respond, but I did anyway. “I don’t want to wear this,” I began, my voice tight with frustration.
“I don’t care,” Max countered. “It’s for your protection.”
“My protection?”
His hand moved to the side of the steering wheel. “Yes. It’s a safety precaution.”
“A safety precaution?” I echoed.
“That’s what I said, yes,” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
“You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met.”
“Okay, humor me,” he interrupted, holding up a placating hand. His voice, which was usually confident, was a tad desperate. “Just for a moment,” he continued, talking with his lips and his hand as if he needed a second way to communicate with me. “If a man looked at your ass, what would you do?”
Heat flooded my cheeks—not just from anger anymore. “I’d let him look.” I smirked. “Just like I let you.”
He tilted his head, turning away from me as if he needed to hide his reaction.
He had nothing to say.
All that did was make me smile.
He stayed silent, of course, all the way to the gallery. The valet took the keys, and Max walked me inside.
The velvet rope shimmered under the soft glow of the lights. The gallery was normally overflowing with tourists and bored teenagers on school field trips, but once every few years, Margot got a night to hold her showings. Her art, along with many others’, was auctioned off.
“Let me know when you’re ready to head back home,” Max said, grabbing onto my upper arm gently before stalking off toward Marco and Remy.
Momma and Daisy were in the corner of the room, talking to a few women I wasn’t familiar with.
The hall, which was usually filled with the echoes of a hundred conversations, was hushed tonight.
The only sounds were the clinks of champagne flutes and the murmurings of just a few conversations I was sure were a waste of everyone’s time.
My family was scattered everywhere, all engaged in one of those conversations.
Above us, crystal chandeliers dripped with light, reflecting off the polished marble floors.
I spotted Veronica Cartwright, a socialite extraordinaire, her smile as sharp as the diamonds on her fingers, debating art with a younger man. Her insults were disguised as compliments, and territorial glances were exchanged over hors d’oeuvres that looked like miniature works of art.
The air around here was so heavy with privilege I practically choked on it. Every woman, including myself, was walking around like an advertisement for a maxed-out credit card.
Suddenly, a hand with perfectly manicured nails grabbed my arm, stopping me in my tracks.
“There you are!” chirped a voice that dripped with forced enthusiasm. “You need to see this. I think your mother would love it.” Margot took me to the other side of the room. “This,” she continued, gesturing to the painting at the far end of the hall, “is simply divine.”
There in front of me was something I certainly wanted to take home.
“Oh.” It was all I could say.
“They say it’s worth thousands.”
“And this was Brooke?” I asked. I stood closer, wanting to touch the art to make sure it was real, but I knew the oils on my fingers would jeopardize the paint. “What did she do differently?” I finally managed, still in shock. “This looks like Monet, but . . .”
“Monet? Really?”
“Well, Monet was all about capturing light, which this does, but it somehow feels moodier . . . Thousands, you say?” I asked.
She nodded. “Eighty-six of them, to be exact.”
“Huh . . .” I trailed off. I didn’t have that kind of money. Not even close. I knew for a fact my mother would be adding this to her overflowing collection.
A dangerous thought clawed its way to the front of my mind. Maybe I did need a rich man after all.
Margot left my side when she recognized a new crowd. While I stood still in my thin heels, I glanced at the painting for what felt like another lifetime.
Suddenly, a familiar face moved in beside me. Lucas. The man my momma thought would be perfect for me. He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight.
My mother.
“Hi, Rose,” he greeted with a smile that seemed genuine—or at least as genuine as a smile could be on a man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Hey. I missed you at the marina,” I admitted, which was funny, because seeing him there was the entire reason my momma had planned the evening.
Lucas offered a slow, unconvincing nod. “Some things required my attention at the office,” he muttered, the explanation left unexplained.
Why would a dirty cop need to stay late at the office? Not my business, I reminded myself.
“Well, it’s good you’re here tonight.”
“Your mother was insistent I come,” he admitted.
“I see. Well, have you ever considered taking a piece home with you?” I gestured vaguely at the painting hanging on the white wall. It wasn’t the most profound question, but it was something.
His gaze finally snapped to mine, and a humorless scoff escaped his lips. “Pay an arm and a leg for paint? Not likely, Rose.”
For . . . paint? My eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Was the man broke, or stupid?
My eyes fluttered open, the harsh gallery lights exacerbating my annoyance. “It’s not about how much money you have—it’s about having the eyes to see it. Which you clearly don’t.”
He blinked then chuckled. “Whoa there. It’s just paint.
Pretty pictures, sure, but there are better investments out there—wouldn’t you agree?
High-interest savings accounts, a well-diversified stock portfolio .
. .” His voice trailed off. “Though, come to think of it, there was this Isabella Rossellini painting I once saw at a private auction in Chicago.”
My jaw dropped. “Isabella Rossellini? Wasn’t she the one who got put in jail for vandalism?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Some big-shot CEO bought all her work. It was all he ever talked about if you shared a glass of scotch with the man.”
“And where is she now?” I asked, curious. I suppose only people in the know were aware of anything.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I listened to him explain the details of Isabella’s sentence and how she should’ve been able to post bail.
To my surprise, I found myself laughing a few times.
Genuine laughs too—the kind that bubbled up from my gut and escaped in snorts.
Maybe he wasn’t that bad. Sure, his tie was questionable, and he could be a little awkward, but there was a decent man underneath it all.
That didn’t mean I felt a spark with him. Not even a single flutter of the heart. Being with a man like Lucas would feel a lot like settling.
Ugh, that made me feel terrible, but I didn’t really have any other option.
After all, my mother would eventually get her way. She always did.
The night continued on for hours before the guests eventually began to trickle out.
The remaining staff, bathed in the dim glow of the emergency exits, hustled around the empty space.
Soon, the only sounds were the soft hum of the ventilation and the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of the security guard’s nightstick against the tile.
Finally, the broad-shouldered uniformed man I’d been waiting for shepherded off the last of the priceless paintings.
“Excuse me,” I called after the guard, my voice echoing through the silence. “Could you tell me which room they took the paintings to?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he rumbled. “Protocol. Can’t share that information with anyone who isn’t authorized personnel.”
I felt a surge of frustration. “Look,” I started, “I understand security and all, but come on—look at me.”
His gaze lingered on my outfit: a simple dress, more suited for a gallery opening than a heist. Did I really look like a common art thief? These paintings were twice the size of me.
He chuckled. “Gotta follow the rules.”
Suddenly, a voice pierced the air above his. “Oh, don’t worry!” It was Margot, and she was coming toward us with a jingling keychain clutched in her hand. “She can follow me. Let’s go, dear.”
Relief washed over me, warm and welcome.
Margot took me down the hall, leading me at a brisk pace toward the far east side of the gallery, which felt like miles away in the heels I was wearing. I was going to have blisters, I knew.
Finally, we reached a steel door, and Margot punched in a complex code. The door buzzed, and she stepped through.
Stale air hit me as we entered. We walked in silence for a moment, passing by artwork that was no longer staged. Most had been covered already, which was a shame, considering all I wanted to do was look at them one more time. More specifically, at the piece Margot had shown me earlier.
“Are you here to pick up the piece your mother bought?” she asked.
My chest tightened. I knew she’d buy it. “No, but it wouldn’t hurt to look at it one last time.”
“You don’t think she’ll hang it in the house?”
I shook my head. “No. This matches the colors on the yacht.” Which meant I’d be seeing it once a year, when they took the yacht out on the water to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Who knew mobsters would enjoy such a silly thing?
They went crazy for it every time. A ridiculous image of the men in expensive suits oohing and aahing over exploding colors in the night sky filled my head.
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
Margot’s phone rang. It was a loud, obnoxious sound. “They need me downstairs. I trust you to lock up once you’re done,” she said before sprinting to the door, the sound of her keychains jangling after her.
Right of the doorway hung the painting that had dragged me back to this stuffy gallery in the first place. I drifted closer to it, my ridiculously high stilettos (the ones Max had helped me pick out) clicking against the polished marble floor.
Just like before, I found myself rooted in front of the canvas, lost in its swirling colors and brushstrokes. Time seemed to melt away, the minutes stretching into what could have been an hour for all I knew.
Eighty-six thousand dollars to have this thing hanging on my own wall, I thought idly, tracing the edges of the frame with a fingertip.
Suddenly, I realized maybe I was capable of robbery.
The absurdity of the notion made me snort, the sound echoing strangely in the space. My feet started to ache even more than before. These heels were gorgeous, but they weren’t practical.
“There you are. Christ,” came a deep voice that seemed to wrap itself around me. I knew that voice—that gravelly rumble that could never stray twenty yards from me. It was as if he could hear me thinking of him.
“Couldn’t keep away, could you?” I asked, my voice a touch lighter than usual. I rolled my neck, trying to ease the crick that had settled in from staring up for so long.
He chuckled. “Not for lack of trying,” he admitted, although the amusement in his eyes told an entirely different story.
My heart thumped. There were six canvases hanging from the wall, and he didn’t look at a single one of them. He watched me, not saying a word. His eyes looked kind . . . honest.
“Are you ready to head out?” he continued.
I smiled, unable to help myself. The logical part of my brain screamed at me to agree, but my traitorous feet remained rooted to the spot, my gaze still locked on the painting. I supposed the right answer was yes, but I wasn’t done looking at the painting.
I frowned, knowing this would be the last time I’d ever see it—except for the Fourth of July.
With a defeated sigh, I glanced back at Max, the words tumbling out in a rush that surprised even me. “Would you steal a piece of art for me?”
Without giving the question any thought, he said, “I’d do anything you asked me to.” His own words seemed to shock him. “But I think purchasing it would be the ethical thing to do.”
Smooth recovery.
I couldn’t help but scoff. “You, lecturing me on ethics?”
He laughed. “Is this the one you like then?”
I swallowed hard, the sudden intensity of his focus making me flustered. I didn’t want to lecture another man about art or why I liked it.
“Yeah,” I managed.
He moved his hands to his pockets. “Nuit Blanche d’Amour,” he said. “Sleepless Night of Love.”
I turned to face him, following his gaze to the sheet of paper beside the painting. “Nuit Blanche d’Amour” was its name.
My voice, when I finally found it, was small. “Is that French?”
He nodded slowly. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and the urge to brush it back with my fingers washed over me.
“Do you know French?” I wondered.
“I do. My mama is from Saint-Germain-des-Pres.”
This was new territory. He’d never mentioned anything about his personal life before.
“Say something else to me.” My cheeks felt hot. I think I was blushing.
“No.”
“Oh, come on.”
“J’ai du mal à me concentrer quand tu es là.”
The words drew me in, and I had no idea what they meant. “What does that mean?” I asked.
He looked at me, his gaze intense. “It means you run your mouth too much.”
A blush crept to my cheeks. “Right,” I said sarcastically. “And how do I say, ‘You’re such a dirty liar’?”
“You don’t.”
I probed him with a few more questions until I got sick of getting no response. It was clear to me that he was trying to put up those walls of his again, and I couldn’t think of anything more dreadful.
Eventually, Max took me home.
It was the usual boring ride, with his security checks and his reluctance to leave. Strangely, I’d started to find some sort of comfort in him. I enjoyed my time with Max, even if he was a brute sometimes.
I thought about kissing him again. Did I want to kiss him because I . . . liked him, or because he was the only man who hadn’t died after touching my lips? It had to be the latter. There was no way I could ever find a man as grumpy and brooding as Max appealing.
He stood at the door. Then, just as he turned to leave, he reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a piece of paper. It took my eyes a second to register what was pinched between his fingers before he placed it down on the table next to the door with a thud.
It was a fifty.